


instructions for dancing

by softnow



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, Feelings are had, Season 2, also there is a healthy dose of snark and banter, an elaborate excuse to put these two horny idiots in fancy clothes at a fancy party in a fancy hotel, by two people who have no idea what to do with them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-14 07:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: The idea of Nathaniel dancing excites her in startling ways—an expectant tingle in her toes, a nameless bubbly warmth in her chest. She tells herself it has more to do with the dancing part than the Nathaniel part. Dancing has always excited her, no matter who’s doing it. And if it just happens to be a tall man with an objectively great jawline, well, that’s perfectly alright.Rebecca and Nathaniel attend a ball. For business. It's totally just for business.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic rests on four basic premises which I personally hold to be self evident: 1. Without the trip to Scarsdale and the ensuing proposal, Rebecca would absolutely get bored with her relationship with Josh (and have no idea how to deal with that); 2. Rebecca is a damn good lawyer and finds at least a little fulfillment in a job well done; 3. the Plimptons are a bunch of showy assholes with a flare for the dramatic, and they will deny it to their graves; and 4. Rebecca and Nathaniel will never not be hopelessly, recklessly drawn to one another.
> 
> Set in a semi-alternate season 2 where Rebecca and Josh don't go to Scarsdale, and Nathaniel has yet to Deal™ with his dad. Basically a substitute 2.10, several weeks after Nathaniel's arrival.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dance first. Think later. It is the natural order." —Samuel Beckett

It begins, as these stories so often do, with a question. And it is, as these questions so often are, entirely unexpected.

They are in his office, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Since his arrival over a month ago, she’s spent a lot of time in this office. Usually it’s for demands and chastisements—things she needs to do now, yesterday, again, correctly. Occasionally it’s for a little mental sparring. He’s proven himself a worthy opponent, and she enjoys getting under his skin, if only because he so easily gets under hers. Rarely, though, it’s for questions. And even more rarely, it’s for questions asked with the door shut.

Which is why, when he asks what he asks, she blinks in surprise, certain she isn’t hearing this right. Certain she isn’t hearing her boss ask her, with a casualness that doesn’t quite belie some deeper importance, what she’s doing on Saturday night.

She has dinner-and-pretend-to-watch-a-movie plans with Josh, plans that have already been rescheduled several times now, but that’s not what she says. 

What she says, in her infinite elegance, is this: “Huh?”

Nathaniel waves his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, cancel it.”

And there it is, the grating arrogance that has become his trademark. Rebecca bristles. 

“Ex- _cuse_ me?”

There’s a small envelope on the blotter next to his laptop. He passes it to her. The paper is heavy and smooth, expensive. It’s sealed with a gold sticker.

“What’s this?”

“Your new Saturday night plans.” She furrows her brow, and he inclines his head. “Open it.”

She peels off the sticker with her thumbnail. The invitation inside is printed on heavy card stock as creamy as the envelope. She’s unable to stifle a gasp as she looks at the swirling gold font embossed across the top.

_The Law Offices of Plimpton, Plimpton & Plimpton Request Your Attendance at the Fifth-Annual Autumn Ball._

Beneath this is a rundown of the important details. She skims over date and time, lingers briefly on the words _Dress: Black Tie_ , and comes to a full stop at _Place_. It’s an address for a hotel in Beverly Hills. As in, 90210. As in, Beverly. Hills.

She stares in disbelief.

“What _is_ this?”

“You don’t know?” His stunned tone tells her that she probably should, but all she can do is shrug. 

“I’m not from here. I don’t pay attention to stuff. You know that. Just tell me what this is.”

He lets out a breath and sits back in his chair. “Wow, okay. It’s, uh, kind of a big deal. It’s our biggest event of the year. The biggest event of any firm this side of Burbank, actually.”

“Okay?” She’s only half listening. The other half of her is stuck on _black tie_ and _Beverly Hills_ and the ridiculously luxurious stationary in her hand.

“It’s highly exclusive,” he says, and explains how the guest list is three-tiered and carefully selected. 

The first tier is the smallest—the equity partners from each of their branches, and some from other firms his father is interested in. The second tier is a little larger—high-profile clients that they want to appease, to keep stuck in their web like swollen flies. The third tier is the biggest—potential clients still in need of wooing, of a little fanfare to lure them into bed. 

(He describes it to her in terms of predation, seduction. It’s a language she’s come to realize he speaks well.)

To Rebecca, it sounds like the exact sort of rich male nonsense a firm like Plimpton, Plimpton & Plimpton would pull. She’s never heard of a law firm hosting a _ball_ before, at least not one without a charity attached to its name. Even when she was at Sampson  & Saunders, the most ostentatious event of the year was the Christmas party—and it was just called that, _the Christmas party_ , and the dress code was always cocktail, never black tie. 

And if she weren’t currently holding an invitation, perhaps she’d find it in her to be upset about the unnecessarily lavish lifestyles of the exceptionally rich. But it’s amazing how nice those unnecessarily lavish lifestyles appear when you’re included. Even if, Rebecca realizes as she processes what Nathaniel’s just said, it doesn’t make sense for you to be.

“But…I’m not an equity partner,” she says hesitantly, as though he could have somehow forgotten that, could snatch the invitation out of her hands at any moment.

“No, you’re not. That invitation was originally for Darryl, but he informed me this morning that he’s leaving town for the weekend with his boyfriend to visit his sick uncle in Indiana, of all places—”

“Oh _no_.”

“—and I couldn’t convince him to postpone it, because apparently the old man’s on his death bed.” Nathaniel makes a face to show what he thinks of _that_ and shakes his head.

“So you’re inviting _me_?” A new wave of excitement fills her, this one colored with pride.

“It’s not personal,” he says with a sniff. “You’re the highest-ranking attorney we have. Nobody from Whitefeather has ever been invited before for…obvious reasons. So we need to look good.”

Rebecca knows that what he’s really saying is _so I need to look good._ The way his eyes had hardened when she made the Oedipus comment a few weeks ago hasn’t left her mind, but she decides not to press him on it. She likes the way this invitation feels in her hand. She doesn’t want to have to give it back.

She reads it again instead and fingers the foil lettering. A little speck of guilt gnaws at the base of her spine as she looks at the date and time, perfectly overlapping with her date night. Then something occurs to her.

“Do I get a plus-one?” 

Because how great would that be? How much better than dinner-and-almost-a-movie? She can just see it, her and Josh, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping champagne. Maybe that’s just what they need. Things between them have been a little…not bad, but _distant_ lately, what with her clocking so many hours at the firm since Nathaniel took over. 

(He’s exhaustingly demanding as a boss, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit some competitive part of her has kind of enjoyed it, enjoyed proving her mettle and rising to the occasion. She’s been challenged more in the last few weeks than she has in her whole year at Whitefeather, and while she makes a show of resisting it on principle, it’s actually been kind of…fun.)

“Yeah right,” he scoffs. “You are not bringing your idiot boyfriend.”

“But—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what this party dresses itself up as. It is _not_ a social event, okay? It’s a chance to put this firm on the map. I need you to bring your A-game, and we both know Surf Shop Sam would just get in the way.”

“For the last time, his name is—”

“Uh-uh.” Nathaniel holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care if his name is Barack Obama. He’s not coming.”

Her eyes shift to the side. “I mean, I think Barack Obama would really help our profile, but whatever.”

“No means no, okay, Rebecca, huh? If you want to come, find a sitter and leave the puppy at home.”

She purses her lips, and he stares at her, firm and unflinching. It really isn’t fair for him to talk about Josh like that—he doesn’t even know Josh!—and she should toss this stupid gorgeous invitation in its stupid creamy envelope back in his stupid proportional face and tell him to take Tim if all he wants is a lackey to make him look good. But her eyes stray to the gold calligraphy, “autumn” surrounded by loops and whorls, and is she honestly going to give up a chance to wear a fancy dress and drink sparkling wine in Beverly Hills? Like California _royalty_?

“Fine!” She throws her hands up. “Fine, okay, no plus-one. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he deadpans.

“Great. Then I guess I’ll see you on Saturday.” Rebecca tucks the invitation back into its envelope and moves to leave.

“Great,” he echoes. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Oh, what? You don’t trust me to not get lost?” She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her chin. “That’s a sexist assumption. I can use Waze just as well as you, you know.”

He chuckles, a dry, smug sound. “No, I don’t trust you to be on _time_. I don’t think you’ve been on time once since I got here.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “You know, studies show that the best time to start the work day is ten AM. So it’s not _my_ fault that you’re operating under antiquated methods. Actually, you should thank me for not coming in sooner and wasting company time with my lack of productivity. Yeah. Really, I’m doing you a favor.”

“Six o’clock” is all he says as he turns his attention to his laptop.

“Fine. But I’m only agreeing because Beverly Hills traffic is a nightmare, and it makes more sense to carpool now that I think about it. So…yeah.” 

She’s nearly out the door when he speaks up again. 

“Oh, and Rebecca?” She turns. He’s watching her from the corner of his eye. There’s something a little mischievous in his face. “At least try to look halfway decent. This is a party for dignified people, not a knitting circle.” 

She rewards him with a harsh laugh and a flash of her middle finger. His lips quirk upwards in an amused smile, something she’s begun to see from him more often, and she slips out before she can think too much about it.

** \- - - **

Her frustration lasts approximately five minutes, or the amount of time it takes for Paula to return from the deli down the street with turkey sandwiches and potato chips. Rebecca follows her to the kitchen, Nathaniel’s knitting circle comment and the ghost of his smile already (mostly) forgotten as she taps the envelope against her palm.

“So Nathaniel called me into his office while you were gone,” she says as Paula spreads their lunch out on the table between them. “You’ll never guess why.”

“Hmm.” Paula looks at her, at the way she’s practically bouncing in her chair. “He…sold the firm to someone who won’t make us work every other weekend?”

“Ugh, no, I wish. No, Paula, look. Look! Look at it. Read it. Here.” Rebecca thrusts the invitation across the table and then covers her grin with her hands.

Paula’s eyes grow wide as she reads, and her jaw is slack when she finally looks up.

“The _Plimpton ball_?” she hisses, leaning closer to Rebecca on her elbows. “You were invited to the _Plimpton ball_?”

Rebecca nods, her curls bouncing. The amazement on Paula’s face makes her feel giddy and warm. She’d believed Nathaniel, of course, about it being a big deal. But Paula’s big, stunned eyes are the best testimony of all. 

“Yes! Well, only technically. It was supposed to be Darryl, but he has to go visit his uncle—or maybe it’s Whijo’s uncle? Pronouns are confusing. Anyway, he can’t go, and Nathaniel’s all uptight about making the firm look good, so I get to go! Ah!”

Paula squeals with her. Then she grabs Rebecca’s hands and looks at her with a grave expression. “You have to tell me _everything_. I mean _everything_. I want to know the food, the drinks, who wore what—oh! If Kevin Costner is there. I’ve heard rumors he’s been invited before, and you know how I feel about Kevin Costner.”

“I— Yeah…” Rebecca manages to nod and shake her head at the same time. “Kevin Costner. Got it.”

“I’m sorry.” Paula leans back in her chair and studies the invitation. “I’ve just never known anybody who’s actually gotten to go to this. Every year, I hear about it and I think, you know, maybe one day.”

“Hey.” Rebecca reaches for Paula’s hand again and gives it a squeeze. “If you’re not invited to this thing the _second_ you pass the bar, I’ll wrestle Perfect Plimpton in there to the ground with something bigger this time. Like a letter opener. Or one of Josh’s karate swords.”

And it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it. In fact, she has a whole list of things she wouldn’t mind chasing that man down with. Knitting needle, chopstick, the pointy end of the comb she uses to part her hair. These fantasies are sometimes the only things that get her through the days when Nathaniel’s mood is particularly grueling. 

(And if she takes them home with her and mulls them over before bed on occasion, well, who could blame her? She’s been having trouble leaving work at the office lately.)

Paula laughs. “Aw, thanks, cookie. Hey, speaking of Josh, weren’t you two supposed to do some romantic couples’ thing this weekend?” 

“Eh, it was just dinner.” Rebecca shrugs and picks at her sandwich. “I’m sure he won’t mind rescheduling.”

The nagging sense of guilt returns, amplified, when she thinks of how many things she’s asked him to reschedule in the last few weeks. But he’s understood every time, she reasons. And what’s one more thing? After this, no more rescheduling.

(But, whispers a voice in the back of her head, isn’t that the promise she made on that first day, when she derailed their water park plans in favor of saving her friends’ jobs? Isn’t that the promise she’s failed to keep nearly every day since?)

** \- - - **

It’s not that she’s not happy, because she is. 

This, she thinks for maybe the first time in her life, is what happy feels like. She has it all—job, friends, man of her dreams. She’s never really had a baseline for _happy_ before, but she’s certain that this definitely meets the criteria. After all, it’s everything she’s worked so hard for.

But there’s a difference between _happy_ and _excited_. 

And she can be happy without being like a shaken can of soda, right? That’s fine. That’s totally normal. It’s perfectly fine to be fizz-over excited about something else, something that’s not Josh. Just because she’s spent so long chasing Josh doesn’t mean she’s required to be a permanent live wire now, right? Normal people definitely don’t feel like that all of the time.

So she’s been a little hyper-focused on work lately. So what? She’s a good lawyer, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to actually dedicate time to something that’s such a big part of her life. And so what, this ball has her more excited than she’s been in a while. It’s a special occasion, worthy of her excitement.

Just because she hasn’t really had this amount of energy for her relationship lately doesn’t mean there’s a problem. _Au contraire_. It means they’ve settled into the comfortable stage. And that’s a good thing.

These are the things she tells herself after Josh gets home from the gym that evening, after she realizes a bit uncomfortably that she didn’t rush to greet him, that she barely looked up from her laptop where she’s switching between tabs full of dress shops with next-day shipping. 

She closes her laptop in a rush and sets it aside.

“Hey,” she says, patting the cushion next to her on the couch. “C’mere. How was your day?”

Josh flops down next to her and shrugs. His hoodie is unzipped over a white tank top. Rebecca stares at his chest and tries to conjure a fizzy feeling, but her heart’s not in it. All she can think about is whether or not she has heels that would match a dark blue dress, or if maybe purple would go better with her skin tone. 

_This is normal_ , she thinks. _This is fine._

Josh is saying something—answering her question, probably—but it isn’t until he volleys back a “How was yours?” that Rebecca manages to pull her head back into the conversation. 

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Great. It was great. Hey, I have some exciting news.”

“You heard about the new burrito place on East Cameron? I know, right? So cool.”

“What? No. I mean, yeah, I heard about that. It looks great. We should definitely try it sometime.” She shakes her head. “No, I was invited to a _ball_ for the firm! Usually they only invite the partners, but Darryl can’t go, so I’m taking his place!”

“He-ey, Becks! That’s awesome!” He reaches to pull her into a side hug, and she goes willingly enough. 

(She doesn’t wonder why no part of her is fizzing at his touch, but she also doesn’t _not_ wonder.) 

“Yeah! But, so, it’s kind of on Saturday. And I know! I know we have plans, but…” She grabs one of his hands in both of hers and puts on her little-girl pout even as his face is falling. “You’re so understanding and sweet and kind, and you won’t mind rescheduling one more time, right?”

“Rebecca…” Josh sighs. “This is the _fourth_ time in the last three weeks that you’ve canceled date night.”

“No! No. I’m not canceling! I just need to move dinner, that’s all!”

“Do you need to move our relationship, too?”

Rebecca falls back against the couch and wrinkles her forehead. “What? Why would you say that?”

“Come on,” he says. “I’ve barely seen you in weeks. You come home late or you’re out with Paula or you have to work on Saturdays. And every time we try to make plans, something comes up and you have to bail. _You said_ when we didn’t go to Raging Waters that you wouldn’t cancel anything else.”

There’s something accusatory in his voice that makes her nostrils flare. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand, and he’s trying to make this her fault, and why doesn’t he get it? 

“I’m just doing my _job_ ,” she says. “I thought you liked that. What happened to, ‘oh, Rebecca’s so devoted’ and ‘oh, Rebecca inspires me?’ I thought you _supported_ me.” 

Josh looks pained. “Of course I support you,” he says. “But it also feels like, ever since we got together, you’ve had something better to do.”

“What—? That’s not—”

“You’ve moved date night four times now. You missed dinner with my parents _again_ last week—”

“Paula needed my help with her case briefs for class!”

“—and you said you’d come have lunch at Aloha’s on Monday and didn’t—”

“I had deposition!”

“— _and_ you still haven’t come to see the new DVD-Blu-Ray-digital-home-media-info-tainment-center display that _I_ designed.”

“Nathaniel’s needed us to stay late to prep for the Chaswick hearing! You know that!”

“Exactly!” The force in his tone makes her flinch. “ _Paula_ needs. _Nathaniel_ needs. What about what _Josh_ needs? Because Josh has needs! Josh has needs a lot of things!” 

“I-I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve been busy. I thought you understood. But what do you want me to do? _Not_ go on Saturday?”

He raises his eyebrows and sets his mouth in a firm line. The tiny rise and fall of his shoulders tells her that that’s _exactly_ what he wants her to do, and the anger that floods through her is unexpected in its intensity.

“No! Josh, no.” She stands, too keyed up to sit still any longer. “This is a _big deal_ , okay? It’s a huge opportunity for me, and—and Nathaniel’s counting on me, and I _have to go_.”

“You don’t even like him!” Josh leaps to his feet opposite her. “You talk _all the time_ about how awful he is!”

“But he’s still my _boss_!” 

“And I’m your _boyfriend_!” He pounds his chest with his hand and stares at her. 

Rebecca falters. His words land like a punch in the gut. Distantly, she realizes this is their first big fight as a couple, their first real shouting match, if she doesn’t count her outburst in the restaurant a few weeks ago. It’s not what she would have expected. Not even close. 

When it becomes clear that she’s not going to say anything, Josh sighs, and his shoulders sag.

“Go to your fancy work party,” he says, resolved. “Hector and his mom need a third for their bowling tournament on Saturday anyway.”

He looks like such a little boy standing there, bruised and pouting, and she finally deflates. 

“Hey, what about Friday? We could do dinner Friday. Or Sunday! Come on, how’s that?” She goes to him and tries to take his hand, but he pulls away from her touch.

“It’s not about dinner, Rebecca.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m gonna go take a shower and go to bed.”

“Bed? It’s eight o’clock! Josh! Hey! Come back! Talk to me!” 

The bathroom door slams shut between them. Rebecca grunts and slaps her palm against it.

“Fine!” she shouts. “Be a child!”

The squeal of the shower door sliding on its track followed by the splatter of water against the tub is her only answer. 

She stalks back to the couch and flings herself onto it, face first. _Where does he get off_ , she thinks. Berating _her_ for never having time, and then the second she tries to _make_ time, he doesn’t want to hear it! _Sorry_ that she’s trying to be _responsible_ , that she wants to help her firm and be a _good person_.

(And yes, okay, yes, maybe her motivations for wanting to go to the ball aren’t that pure—maybe she just wants to dress up and go to a fancy hotel with fancy people and schmooze rich guys into hiring her.)

(And maybe she’s also thinking just a little bit about the face Nathaniel made that first night in his office when she landed the meeting with the country club, how he’d seemed surprised and impressed. And maybe she’d felt a little warm and fuzzy at that, at showing him how good she could be, and maybe she wants to do it again, and what’s so wrong with that?)

Rebecca lays there for a while, head buried in a throw pillow, fuming. Eventually, she hears the shower switch off and Josh go to the bedroom. She thinks about apologizing, considers what it would take to ease the tension, and decides against it. 

Because apologizing means admitting. It means admitting that she hasn’t been here, that she’s chosen work—even the _illusion_ of work, because honestly, she spends a disproportionate amount of time at her desk reading her horoscope and looking at pictures of dogs wearing hats—over spending time with Josh alarmingly often. And it means admitting why. 

And she’s not ready to admit that. Not to him, and definitely not to herself, which is why she shoves the mounting anxiety away with both hands and reaches instead for the anger. That’s safe. That’s _normal_. Couples fight about things like this all of the time. It’s just part of being in a relationship. 

“It’s fine,” she says, her voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m fine.”

** \- - - **

“So,” Heather drawls once Josh leaves for the bowling alley on Saturday, his goodbye punctuated by a dry peck on Rebecca’s cheek and a perfunctory _have a nice time_. “Still having trouble in paradise, huh?”

She’s sitting in the empty bathtub, dangling her legs over the side and eating gummy worms from a bag while Rebecca does her makeup.

“What? No. We’re fine now,” Rebecca says, leaning in to blend her eyeshadow. She avoids Heather’s skeptical gaze in the mirror. “We talked last night, and we made up, and we’re great.”

They _had_ talked—in the five minutes between laying down and falling asleep—and while there hadn’t been apologies necessarily, they had remarked on how exhausting fighting is, which Rebecca takes to mean they’re on the road to recovery.

“Good for you,” Paula says from her seat on the closed toilet lid. “I knew you guys would be fine.”

“Um, okay, then why was he all mopey just now?” Heather bites into a gummy worm as pink as the streaks in her hair and talks around it. “ _Oh_ , do you think he’s jealous because you’re going out with your sexy boss and he’s going to be a third wheel at Bowl-a-Rama?”

“Okay, first of all—” Rebecca wheels around and uses her mascara wand as a pointer. “—I am not ‘going out with’ anybody. It’s a work thing. That’s it. And secondly, Josh is not jealous, because Josh knows there’s no reason to be jealous, okay? We had a fight, yes, but we’re solid. A-and thirdly, he is not my ‘sexy boss.’” She mimes quotes around the words and scrunches up her face in disgust. “I don’t even know where you got that.”

Heather tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “I dunno, maybe from you calling him ‘Sexy Stalin,’ like, _three_ times last week?”

Paula’s eyebrows climb her forehead, and she turns to Rebecca with a curious expression. Rebecca turns away.

“Okay, I did not— I mean, I didn’t mean, like _sexy_ -sexy. I just meant like, objectively, in a Spice Girls-style lineup of Stalins, he would be the sexy one.”

Heather stuffs another worm into her mouth. “So Josh _isn’t_ jealous.”

“Exactly.” Rebecca leans into the mirror again to swipe on a deep red lipstick. 

“And you two _aren’t_ still fighting.”

“That’s right.”

Heather shrugs. “If you say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rebecca asks, making a show of shoving her cosmetics back into her makeup bag.

“Just that I didn’t hear, like, a single headboard bang from your room this morning, and while I’m _to_ -tally not complaining, like at all, that means you’re still having problems in Chan-land.”

“Oh, come on,” Paula says. “Just because you didn’t hear them having sex doesn’t mean they’re still fighting. Nobody has sex every day, you know.”

Heather wrinkles her nose. “No, see, you don’t live here, so you wouldn’t understand, but the sounds coming from their bedroom are pretty much a relationship litmus test.”

“Hey.” Rebecca crosses her arms over her robe-clad chest. “Paula’s right. We can not have sex whenever we want, and it doesn’t mean anything. And honestly, it’s…kind of weird and…and creepy that you pay attention like that.”

“ _No_ ,” Heather says as emphatically as she can, eyes wide. “No, I definitely don’t want to. You guys are just, like, _super_ loud? All of the time? I really can’t help it. I actually just bought noise-canceling headphones, so.”

“Ugh, fine, whatever. Are we doing something about this—” Rebecca waves a hand around her limp, freshly-washed hair. “—or not?”

Heather dumps the last of the gummy worms into her mouth and extracts herself from the tub. She motions for Paula to move, sits Rebecca down on the toilet lid, and plugs in the curling iron.

“Where’d you learn to do hair?” Paula leans against the counter and watches, interested.

“Oh.” Heather shrugs. “I did cosmetology school for a summer between junior years.”

As Heather begins to section off pieces of her hair, Rebecca studies her nails (freshly painted the same deep red as her lips) and relaxes. She’s grateful that the conversation has drifted away from her love life. Normally, she’d like nothing more than to talk about her relationship, but today, it couldn’t interest her less. Which, she tells herself for the thousandth time, doesn’t mean anything bad. She’s just preoccupied.

She is, after all, attending a _ball_. And yes, it’s with her boss, but if she’s honest, she’s actually a little intrigued to see what Perfect Plimpton’s like out of the office. Surely there’s a person—even the malformed, ghostly reflection of one—somewhere inside that ridiculously symmetrical façade. 

She wonders if he’s much of a dancer. It’s a purely scientific question, of course. Because she can’t actually imagine him dancing—but if she _had_ to imagine it, she thinks he’d probably be decent at it, composed as he is. He’d probably know how to waltz or tango or something equally technical and impressive. 

The idea of Nathaniel dancing excites her in startling ways—an expectant tingle in her toes, a nameless bubbly warmth in her chest. She tells herself it has more to do with the _dancing_ part than the _Nathaniel_ part. Dancing has always excited her, no matter who’s doing it. And if it just _happens_ to be a tall man with an objectively great jawline, well, that’s perfectly alright.

After a while of bobby-pinning and hairspraying, Heather steps back and declares her finished.

Rebecca stands to inspect Heather’s handiwork in the mirror and is momentarily speechless. Her housemate has somehow managed to craft an elaborate, near-professional updo out of her short tresses. It’s defined enough to be sophisticated, yet loose enough to be a little sexy. Unpinned curls brush her cheeks, hinting at something untamed. The overall effect is—

“Whoa,” Paula breathes. 

Yeah, Rebecca thinks. _Whoa_. She’s still in her bathrobe—hasn’t even bothered to change out of her ratty Saturday underwear yet—but she can’t remember the last time she felt this beautiful. It’s as though she’s seeing an entirely different woman, one who’s sophisticated and confident and mysterious. One who’s all of the things she isn’t. One who’s all of the things she’d like to be.

“Heather,” she says, her voice tinged with awe. “ _Thank_ you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Heather says. She appraises her work with raised eyebrows. “You look hot, though.”

“You look amazing, cookie,” Paula agrees and glances at her watch, “but it’s time to get you dressed.”

Rebecca stares at herself ( _herself! how?_ ) for a minute longer and then allows Paula to lead her to her bedroom. Her dress hangs in a garment bag on the back of her door, and Paula sets to work freeing it from the plastic while Rebecca changes her underwear. 

She considers a practical pair of no-show cotton panties, but casts them aside in favor of a lacy black thong. The woman in the mirror doesn’t wear sensible cotton under her evening gown; the woman in the mirror dresses to kill. 

“Cute,” Paula comments. There’s a hint of suspicion in her tone.

Rebecca ignores the implications and slips into her dress. It’s a sleeveless black number, simple and refined, with a bateau neckline and a skirt that brushes the floor in the back and stops at her shins in the front to show off her matching Louboutins. She smooths her hands over the fabric and Paula sighs behind her as she does up the zipper.

“I always dreamed of having a daughter to help get ready for the prom,” she says. 

“A lawyer party isn’t exactly the prom,” Rebecca quips despite the rush of emotion she feels at Paula’s words. 

To be honest, she’s always dreamed of what it might have been like to have a mother to help her get ready for prom. A real mother. No diets, no yelling, just enthusiastic support. 

“No, but there’s the makeup, and the dress, and the shoes, and the date…” 

“Paula. It’s Nathaniel. It’s business. It’s not a date.”

“I mean, duh,” Paula scoffs. “But it’s still exciting anyway.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t disagree. From the living room, she hears a knock on the front door.

“Re- _bec_ -ca,” Heather calls. “Sexy Stalin’s here.”

“Oh, God,” Rebecca moans, her cheeks red as she shoves a pair of dangly earrings through her ears and scoops up her clutch. 

She notices three things as she rounds the corner into the living room.

The first thing is that Nathaniel looks supremely uncomfortable. He’s hovering in the doorway, his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders tense, while Heather stares at him from the dining table. 

(She thinks of Paula’s prom comment and realizes it’s not entirely inaccurate. The image of Billy Feldman cowering in the entryway under Naomi’s own stare suddenly doesn’t feel so far away.)

The second thing she notices is that he looks incredible.

It shouldn’t catch her off guard. She’d made note of his attractiveness the moment she met him. Not because it matters to her, of course, but because it’s simply one of his defining characteristics—like his height or his hair color or his overblown confidence. And yet. 

His tuxedo is perfectly tailored and crisp. The lines of it accentuate the length of his limbs, the broadness of his chest. His hair looks clean and soft, the crest of it swept up and to the side. If James Bond had a baby with an Old Fashioned, and then that baby was raised by George Clooney and a four-layer chocolate cake, Rebecca thinks it might look a little like how Nathaniel looks right now.

And although it takes her a second to get there, the third thing she notices is that he’s staring. 

His lips part ever so slightly and his eyes take their time sweeping the length of her before settling on her face. They look at each other for a long moment. Rebecca tries to think of something—anything—to say and discovers that she seems to have lost the English language. Her brain is a badly tuned TV, all static and noise. Which makes sense, considering how her skin has been replaced by pure electricity, prickly and hot.

“Uh” is all she manages, but it’s enough. 

Nathaniel jumps like he’s been shocked and clears his throat. Rebecca sucks in an unsteady breath and shakes her head. His slack mouth and surprised eyes flash like projector slides on the backs of her eyelids when she blinks.

“Rebecca,” he says by way of greeting. “You look…um….ready.”

“It’s six,” she says. “You said six.”

“I didn’t expect you to be—” His gaze slips down her body again before jerking back up. “—on time.”

A thrill passes through her, makes her feel victorious and bold. She lifts her chin. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay!” Paula says a little too forcefully, and Rebecca flinches. She’d forgotten her friends were still in the room. “Well, you two have fun, and good luck! Snag us some big fish!”

Nathaniel flashes her a distracted smile and nods once before slipping out. Rebecca moves to follow him, but Paula catches her by the wrist.

“Tell. Me. _Everything_ ,” she says. Then her eyes dart to door, to the empty space where Nathaniel just stood. She leans in close and drops her voice to a whisper. “And be _smart._ ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rebecca says, although she thinks she does, and what a ridiculous thing to say. It’s just _Nathaniel._

(And isn’t that the problem?)

Paula only lets go when Nathaniel calls out from the patio.

“Rebecca, we don’t have all day!”

The familiar exasperation in his voice eases her. She squeezes Paula’s arm and smiles.

“Don’t worry,” she says.

He’s buckling his seatbelt as she slides into the passenger’s seat, gathering her dress around her. His car smells clean and new, but there’s something else too, something rich and a little spicy. It takes her a minute to realize it’s his cologne. 

She shivers and blames it on the air conditioning.

** \- - - **

They don’t talk much at first. Rebecca fiddles with the radio, and Nathaniel doesn’t stop her, though he makes disgusted faces at every station she lands on. 

She finds a top 20 countdown of Queen’s greatest hits, and he merges onto the 10. She sings under her breath, and he watches her from the corner of his eye. He taps his thumbs against the steering wheel, and she smirks.

“You like Queen?”

“What? No.”

“Hmm.”

They lapse into silence again. The first bars of “Another One Bites the Dust” play. 

“My water polo coach used to play this before every match,” he says with an edge like he’s daring her to say something about it.

She considers this. “Interesting. Not after?”

His mouth twitches. “After was ‘We Are the Champions.’”

“So cliché,” she says, but she’s smiling.

Freddie rides with them past El Monte, but as they approach Los Angeles, Nathaniel punches the button to silence the radio.

“So the owner of the Wexford Hills and Spa’s going to be there tonight,” he says.

“That’s the place in Glendale, right?” 

Paula’s mentioned it before—one of those upscale golf-course-and-spa-resort spots. 

“Right.” His grip on the wheel flexes, tightens. “They’re looking for new representation to help open a second location further east. We’re going to be that representation.”

“We are?”

He nods. “Word is they’re set on the LA offices, but I spoke with my father, and he’s willing to let us have it if we can get them on board.”

“That’s generous of him.” 

Nathaniel snorts. “My father is not ‘generous.’ He’s smart, and he’s very good at what he does. He’s not going to give up such a large account unless we’re impeccable. And not Whitefeather-impeccable. Plimpton-impeccable.”

Rebecca leans her temple against the headrest and studies him. His jaw tenses, relaxes, tenses. His eyes bore holes into the highway ahead. 

“Wow,” she drawls. “Hey, can we roll down the window? It’s getting kind of hard to breathe in here with your giant ego taking up all the space.”

“Oh, please. I’m just being honest.”

“Mm, is that what they’re calling it these days?”

He rubs a hand over his mouth. “This affects you too, you know.” 

“No, I know. But I’m not the one freaking out about it.”

“Freaking—?” Nathaniel forces a laugh. “I am not ‘freaking out’ about anything. I do not ‘freak out.’ I care about this firm. I care about taking it to the next level.”

Rebecca quirks a wry brow. “You care about this firm. Okay.”

“What?” He frowns.

“Come on! Your first order of business here was to try and fire half the staff!”

“Four people!” he protests. “ _And_ it was for the greater good.”

“The greater good of _your_ firm, maybe. Not ours. You can admit it,” she says, fake-sweet. “You don’t actually care about us at all. You just care about making yourself look good.”

“Oh, and _you_ care so much? Is that it, miss can’t-be-bothered-to-come-in-before-noon?”

“Ten!” She swats his arm with the back of her hand. 

“You’re very abusive,” he says mildly. “One of these days, I’m going to file an HR report on you.”

“Sure. And risk losing your most competent lawyer?”

“No great loss. I’ll be able to afford to hire an even better one if we land Wexford.”

Rebecca gasps in indignation, but she can’t help it when a chuckle escapes anyway. “If this is your way of getting me to help you tonight,” she says, “you’re an even worse lawyer than I thought.”

He suppresses a smile, but she catches the phantom edges of it in his cheeks. His very smooth cheeks. It occurs to her that this is the perhaps first time she’s seen him so clean-shaven. It softens his edge a little bit. She’s not sure how she feels about it, and she’s struck with an absurd urge to graze her knuckle along the corner of his jaw, to see if any part of him could actually be so soft.

_What the fuck, Rebecca?_

She squeezes her hands together in her lap and averts her eyes. Suddenly road signs hold the appeal of critically acclaimed movies. Wow, a turn off to Crenshaw Boulevard. Riveting. 

“Alright,” she says at last, because she was lying about the road sign thing, and she’s still thinking about his jaw. “Tell me about it.”

“What?”

“Wexford. How we’re gonna snag ’em. I know you’re thinking about it.”

He is. And he tells her. And it’s almost enough to distract her the rest of the way to Beverly Hills.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This one night we will be mad — dance lightly — raise our hearts as the beat strengthens, grows buoyant — careless, defiant. What matters anything so long as one's step is in time — so long as one's whole body & mind are dancing too — what shall end it?" —Virginia Woolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, welcome, gentle reader, to the Plimpton Autumn Ball. We've got daddy issues, we've got snark, we've got dancing, and we've got all the champagne you'll need to wash it down. Relax, make yourself comfortable, and join the party.
> 
> In all seriousness, though, a smattering of #lawyering happens in this chapter and I know basically zilch about anything lawyers do, so if you are somebody who is a lawyer or who understands lawyers, too bad, I'm exercising my full creative license to say whatever the hell I want.

They arrive at the hotel just as the sun begins to set. Nathaniel pulls up to the valet station, but Rebecca barely notices. Her face is all but pressed to the glass, her eyes like shiny coins, because this is _the_ most gorgeous building she’s ever seen. Like, ever.

It’s something out of a movie, eight towering stories with arched windows so clean they gleam. There are ledges and balconies, parapets and domes, and an impressive glass awning over twin revolving doors. The tan façade glows golden in the twilight. It doesn’t look like it belongs here in southern California. It should be somewhere European and exotic, like Monaco or Greece. She can practically hear the ABBA now.

She remembers to breathe only when Nathaniel opens the door for her after giving his key to the valet. She steps out and straightens her dress absently, too busy craning her neck to really care about wrinkles.

“Oh my god,” she sighs. “This is incredible.”

“My father only goes for the best. He says anything less than a perfect impression is a bad impression. Now come on.” He steers her towards the door with a gentle hand on her back, a surprising but not altogether unwelcome gesture.

If the outside was amazing, the inside of the hotel is downright unbelievable. Nathaniel leads her down a wide hallway lit by starburst-shaped chandeliers, and flanked with bronze statues of Greek women. Luxurious rugs muffle her footsteps, but they might as well be clouds for how airy she feels right now. Light, sweet cello music reaches to caress her and _god_ , could this get any better? It’s like every princess fantasy she’s ever had, but better, because it’s real. 

Her whole body is buzzing, practically vibrating right out of her shoes, and she thinks she might actually fly apart if it wasn’t for Nathaniel’s subdued presence beside her. His jaw is set, his eyes filled with grim determination, and Rebecca realizes with a hint of awe that this is what he looks like nervous.

She only has a minute to consider this new revelation before they turn a corner and the air is knocked out of her for the second time. The ballroom spreads before her, a massive autumnal paradise. Gauzy butterscotch curtains line the walls, broken intermittently by ornate candelabra sconces. The tables, confined to one half of the room, are covered with light brown linens and topped with bouquets of orange chrysanthemums. But it’s the trees that hug the dance floor that make her freeze. Taller than Nathaniel, with trunks of woven metal and leaves that look as though they were cut from sheets of gold, they’re unlike anything she’s ever seen before. The couples dancing amidst them might as well be dancing through an enchanted forest. 

Nathaniel continues a few paces into the room before he realizes she’s not still with him. 

“What are you doing? Don’t just stand there. Let’s go.” He makes an impatient sweeping gesture with his arm, and she shakes herself out of her stupor to catch up with him. 

“I can’t believe this is real,” she says, as much to herself as to him. “I feel like I’m going to wake up with drool on my face and a stiff back at any second. This is _insane_.”

“Stop being weird.” He stretches his neck and scans the crowd. After a minute, recognition dawns on his face and he replaces his hand on her back to propel her forward.

They wind through the tables and past groups of people milling around, chatting and laughing and eating cheese cubes on toothpicks. An older blonde woman in a resplendent navy dress stands near the bar talking to a tuxedoed man with military posture. She notices Rebecca and Nathaniel approach, and her face curves into a lovely, if reserved, smile. Her companion turns and Rebecca recognizes him immediately from the photo in the office. He looks even sterner in person.

“Nathaniel. How nice of you to finally join us,” his father says. “We were beginning to wonder.”

Nathaniel straightens under his father’s gaze and laughs uncomfortably. “It just started.”

“Yes, twenty minutes ago, and you know being on time means being fifteen minutes early.” His father narrows his eyes. “Or have you forgotten how to be punctual since you moved to that lousy excuse for a town?”

“No, sir, but there was traffic on the 10 and—”

“And there’s always traffic on the 10. You should have left earlier.”

Nathaniel opens his mouth, sputters.

“With all due respect, sir,” Rebecca says, “we left in plenty of time, but you can’t always predict the traffic. It’s like a bad date, am I right?”

Nobody laughs with her, but Nathaniel’s father turns to her as if noticing her for the first time. He scrutinizes her with the detached stare of a jeweler appraising a fake diamond.

“Who’s this? Where’s the Indian fellow?”

“Actually, the preferred term is ‘Native American’ and—”

Nathaniel curls his hand around the back of her arm and squeezes hard. “This is Rebecca Bunch, sir. Rebecca, these are my parents.”

“So lovely to meet you both.” Rebecca extends her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Plimpton, and may I just say what an incredible party this is.”

Nathaniel’s father looks at her hand and then very deliberately tucks his own into his pockets. Rebecca’s smile falters, but Nathaniel’s mother swoops in and clasps her hand briefly. She has the handshake of a hummingbird.

“You brought the water girl?” Nathaniel’s father asks with an expression Rebecca recognizes. It’s the same one Nathaniel gets when she tells him that she’s leaving early or that she doesn’t have a brief done just yet, and it’s a surreal experience to see him on the receiving end. 

“Well, Rebecca is our best attorney, and Darryl, the—um—” Nathaniel’s eyes cut to Rebecca. “—my partner was unavailable this weekend, and I thought—”

“Yes, because that always goes so well for you,” his father sneers, and Rebecca has to do a double-take, because for a second, all she can see is her mother. “Well, it’s too late to do anything now, I suppose. Now if you’ll excuse me, the Fleetwood Bank brothers are here, and I need to speak with them about a few things.”

He stalks off towards the doors, and Nathaniel’s mother offers a sympathetic smile.

“You know how he gets,” she says, reaching out to touch Nathaniel’s arm with her fingertips before trailing after her husband.

“Well, he seems, um…” Rebecca winces. “Your mom is nice.”

Nathaniel chuckles dryly and doesn’t meet her eye. Interesting. She adds “embarrassed Nathaniel” to the list of new Nathaniels she’s met tonight. 

“I’m sorry. This party always stresses him out, but he, uh, he shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“Psh.” She waves her hand. _Forget about it._ “Dude, I am so used to being disrespected by Plimpton men at this point. That was like small potatoes compared to what I put up with from you.” 

He huffs at the affront, adjusting his jacket and lifting his chin. “Please, if anyone gets disrespected around here, it’s me. You never listen, never do what I tell you to do. You _attack_ me—”

“Uh-huh, I’m a real bear to work with. Now come on, boss.” She jerks her head towards the bar and clicks her tongue. “Get me a drink, and let’s go woo a golf course.”

“Excuse me? Shouldn’t you be getting me a drink? _Water girl_?”

She takes a step back and holds up her palms. “Okay, so for that, you owe me a drink _and_ some of those cream cheese pinwheel things. Move it.”

“I should’ve brought Tim,” he grumbles, but he moves it.

** \- - - **

It turns out they aren’t the only ones with punctuality problems. They may have been twenty minutes late, but Wexford is late by nearly fifty. 

They pass the time mingling in the crowd, shaking hands and making smalltalk. Nathaniel introduces her to the lawyers from the LA offices and to some of the clients he’s worked with before, and she’s suitably charming even though she forgets most of their names as soon as she’s heard them. 

Nathaniel keeps one eye on the door like a cat ready to pounce, and Rebecca keeps one eye on the dance floor, captivated by the couples swaying and twirling. She watches the CEO of a local grocery store chain (Dustin something? or maybe Declan?) sweep his wife into an exaggerated, comical dip before kissing her. She laughs and holds him around the neck, and Rebecca’s chest tightens. She sips the champagne Nathaniel brought her and sighs.

She can’t believe she’s been here this long and hasn’t even danced a measure. If she had it her way, her first (and maybe only) destination of the night would have been that rhythmic sea of taffeta and silk. Nathaniel’s talking to one of the LA lawyers about budget cuts, and she rocks on her heels next to him. As soon as he’s done, she resolves, she’s going to drag him out onto that dance floor. He can watch for Wexford over her head for all she cares, but she’s going to dance. He owes her that much, after denying her the plus-one who would have indulged her the second they arrived. 

(Her chest squeezes then, as she thinks about that would-be plus-one and the resolute detachment on his face when he’d left the house this afternoon. It squeezes further as she realizes this is the first time she’s thought about him since.)

After a few minutes, Nathaniel shakes the LA lawyer’s hand and makes empty promises to see him soon before turning to her, no doubt to shuffle her along to the next meet-and-greet. She grabs his arm to still him.

“Hey—”

“Finally,” he exhales, and for one wild second, Rebecca thinks he’s on her wavelength. _Finally he’s gone. Finally we can dance._ But then she realizes he’s not looking at her, he’s watching a short bald man lead his supermodel of a wife towards an empty table, and her head rolls back in frustration.

“Is that him?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

“Uh-huh. Remember—”

“You know a bunch of land developers, we’ll throw in a signing bonus, West Covina is the place to go for that personal touch,” she says, reciting the talking points he went over in the car. “I got it. Now can we get this over with?”

“Careful, or I really will hire a replacement for you.”

“You could try. But you’d miss my cheery disposition and witty repartee. You’d be begging for me to come back in a week, tops.”

“Your modesty is astounding.” 

He flashes her a teasing smirk that morphs into a genuinely pleasant smile as they draw up to Wexford’s table. She knows it’s just for show—she’s seen his sweet-as-honey-to-trap-the-flies smile enough in client meetings to recognize it—but her stomach somersaults at the sight of it in a way she doesn’t want to understand.

“Mister Wexford, hello,” Nathaniel says, offering his hand. 

They make the standard round of introductions and cursory smalltalk. Yes, this party’s great; yes, traffic coming here was a nightmare; yes, we could use some rain, now that you mention it. Rebecca learns that they have two children at home, that they’re looking forward to a Caribbean vacation, and that Wexford’s absurdly pretty wife isn’t a supermodel but a business partner, running the spa half of the business while her husband tends to the golf.

“So I’ve heard you’re interested in opening another location further East,” Nathaniel says after Wexford finishes commenting on how the recent heatwave has been hell for the golfing but heaven for the spa. 

“That’s right. I’ve been in talks with your father, actually, about negotiating some land outside Chino or Corona. We get a lot of people from that area coming, and they all tell us they wish they didn’t have to drive so far.”

“Good for you.” Nathaniel gives Wexford a friendly clap on the shoulder and they share the I’m-just-pretending laugh that all businessmen have. “Corona’s a great city, really nice. I know a few land developers out that way, actually. It’s very up-and-coming.”

Wexford purses his lips. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. And, you know, West Covina’s a hell of a lot closer to Corona than LA is, especially with that afternoon traffic on the 10.”

“Much closer,” Rebecca echoes, nodding sagely. 

“We’d be more than happy to help you get that land,” Nathaniel says. “We know the area better than the guys up in LA. I’m positive we could find you the perfect spot for a great price.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Wexford says. “But we’re very impressed with your LA office. No offense to you, of course. I’m sure you guys are great. But we saw your father just closed that deal with the baseball park in Pasadena that nobody thought was gonna happen, and the results speak for themselves. Again, no offense.”

Nathaniel’s smile tightens but stays in place.

“Of course,” he says. “No, I totally understand. The Pasadena thing was…a big victory, that’s true. But I promise you, our work is just as good, if not better. And we’d be willing to throw in a signing bonus of—”

Wexford holds up his hand and shakes his head sadly. “Your father already offered us a signing bonus, and we’re very inclined to accept. I’m sorry, Mister Plimpton, but I think we’ve made up our minds.”

Rebecca recognizes the flush climbing Nathaniel’s neck. She’s only seen it once or twice before in meetings where things didn’t go as planned, where he lost the upper hand. He opens his mouth to say something else, but she jumps in before he can.

“Mrs. Wexford, that dress is just to die for,” she gushes. “What is it? Valentino?”

“Marchesa, actually.” She smooths a hand over her stomach and then leans in to stage-whisper, “I got it on sale.”

Rebecca throws her head back and laughs like it’s the best joke she’s heard all night. “You’ve got quite the woman here, sir,” she says to Wexford. Then, to Mrs. Wexford, “I seem to be out of champagne. What do you say we go get some more and leave these two to their man business?”

Nathaniel shoots her a warning glance, and she flashes him what she hopes is a _trust me_ smile before taking Mrs. Wexford’s arm to steer her to the bar.

“So, running a spa. That must be amazing, right?”

The bartender hands her two champagne flutes, and she passes one to Mrs. Wexford.

“Hmm, some days are better than others,” Mrs. Wexford says. “It’s more difficult than you’d think to find and keep good workers. Everyone wants to do facials for celebrities, not affluent middle aged women. But what can you do?”

Rebecca tilts her head to the side, thinking. “Facials, you say?”

“Mm-hmm. They’re our most popular service, but there’s a waiting list because we’re almost always down a few technicians.” Mrs. Wexford sips her champagne and shrugs a _what-can-you-do_ shrug.

“You know… I think I might be able to help you.”

Mrs. Wexford raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows and cradles her glass against her chest. “How’s that?”

Rebecca’s mouth stretches into her own version of Nathaniel’s sweet-as-honey smile. Tonight, he’s not the only shark in the water.

** \- - - **

Nathaniel and Wexford are still discussing land deals in terse tones when Rebecca and Mrs. Wexford come back. They look up, and Rebecca spies a hint of relief in both of their faces.

“It was so nice to talk to you,” Wexford says in a voice that says it decidedly was not, “but if you’ll excuse me, I think I owe my wife a dance.”

The Wexfords make their exit and Nathaniel sags. He rubs a palm over his face and shakes his head.

“We blew it. They’re going to sign with my father, and—dammit!” He turns to her. “What the hell was that, by the way? I thought we had a plan.”

Rebecca squares her shoulders. “ _You_ had a plan, and it was clearly not working. I took a chance.”

“What, to go gossip with his wife while I had maybe the _worst_ conversation of my career?”

“No,” she says evenly. “To discuss _business matters_ with his _business partner_.”

“And what good did that do? Huh?” He gestures towards the dance floor. “They’re waltzing off—literally—towards a deal with my father, and _we_ have nothing.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not the end of the world if we don’t get this particular client. There are tons of clients! Look around!”

“You don’t get it,” he says, his voice low. He pushes a hand through his hair and exhales a shaky sigh.

“I get that you’re upset. And that you clearly have some weird power struggle thing happening with your dad—which, like, you should probably talk to somebody about that at some point, just sayin’.” 

His tight mouth and flat eyes tell her he couldn’t be less amused. She knows it’s a sore spot—perhaps one of the only chinks in his armor she’s managed to find—and she considers wheedling him a little more, driving the crack wider. God knows she’s practically made a second career out of it, and this is the perfect opportunity. But the more she thinks about it, the more it loses its flavor. 

“Hey, you know what always makes me feel better?” she says instead. “Dancing. Come on, what do you say? Let’s cut a rug. Boogie those blues away.” She pokes at his chest, and he takes a step back.

“I’m not really in the mood for this right now,” he says. “I need a minute to think. I’m going to get a drink. I’ll—I’ll be back.”

He disappears into the crowd. Rebecca’s arms fall to her sides and she drops into a chair. _Some ball._ The champagne has lost its appeal, but she drinks it anyway while she watches the couples on the dance floor moving beneath those incredible metal trees. 

She should go find him. Not for him, of course. But for her. She’s the one who has to deal with him all night, and if she can just cheer him up a little bit, give him a good rally, maybe they can salvage the evening.

(Maybe they can dance.)

Rebecca weaves through the tables in the direction she thinks he went, but she doesn’t see him. Instead, she sees Dustin-or-Declan coming straight for her.

“Miss Bunch!” He catches one of her hands in both of his and gives it an enthusiastic pump. Rebecca thinks she’s shaken enough hands tonight to last her a lifetime. “I was hoping to speak with you for a minute. I’m Declan Peters, with Food Riot?”

“Oh, right. Hi,” she says, barely looking at him. She’s still scanning the crowd for a familiar swoop of hair. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been following your work since the Greater City Water case, and I have to admit, I’m impressed. And you see, we’re in a bit of a tight spot at Food Riot right now. One of our contractors for the new location is suing us and— Miss Bunch?”

Rebecca whips her head back to Declan, mouth pressed into a thin line and eyebrows raised. “Hmm? I’m sorry, what?”

“I wanted to talk to you about potentially representing us in— Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, it’s just…” She cranes her neck to scan the dance floor, and Declan follows her gaze.

“Oh,” he says. “Would you like to dance? We can discuss the suit. My wife—” He points. “—is actually dancing with one of the lawyers from your other firm right now, but if I’m being honest, I’d really like to get you on board with this.”

Rebecca blinks. “Dance?”

“Sure.” Declan shrugs good-naturedly and offers his arm.

It’s not exactly what she had in mind, and she still wants to find Nathaniel, but she’s finally being asked to dance. At a _ball_. And maybe it’s not what dreams are made of—Declan’s short and kind of mousy in the face and, most importantly, married—but it’s something. After the evening she’s had so far, she deserves something.

They’re nearly to the dance floor when someone calls her name. She glances back, and there’s Nathaniel, shouldering his way towards her. His eyes are wide and excited, and he’s smiling, and her stomach clenches like she’s been hugged hard around the middle. Her hand falls from Declan’s arm as Nathaniel approaches.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, not even acknowledging Declan. “Right now.”

She knows she’s being rude, abandoning a potential client like this, but he just looks so _pleased_ , and she’s smiling through her confusion, so she lets him lead her away to the edge of the room. When he puts his hand on her back this time, it’s up high where her dress dips to expose her shoulder blades, and she feels a five-point tingle radiating from his fingertips. 

“What? What’s going on?”

He leans in, his voice low. “We got them.”

“Wait, what?”

“Wexford. We got them. They’re going to come in to sign on Monday.”

Rebecca’s eyes go wide, and she gasps and laughs with the same breath. “Oh my god! Seriously? What happened?”

“That’s what I should ask you. He said whatever you told his wife was _very_ convincing. Something about a facial technician? What was that?”

Pride, hot and sweet, floods through her, but she plays coy. “Oh, nothing, really. I did a case for a pretty high-end salon in La Habra last year, and the owner just happened to mention she was interested in expanding her services and partnering with a larger spa. I just offered to help facilitate. Really, nothing more than right place, right time.” She flicks one of her curls out of her face.

“Unbelievable,” he says, and it’s a word she’s heard from him before, usually shouted but never like this, excited and a little awed.

“Guess this means you can hire that new lawyer, huh?”

Nathaniel sniffs and makes a show of straightening his bowtie. “Well, you _did_ do a pretty good job tonight, so…I guess you’re safe for now.”

“Oh, phew.” She wipes fake sweat from her brow. “Here I was, thinking I was going to have to open my own firm and steal all your clients.”

“Dream on, Bunch. You’d go belly up in a year.”

They grin at each other, and it’s a good moment, maybe the most genuinely happy one they’ve ever shared. But then Nathaniel’s smile slips just a little bit, softening around the edges, and the air between them solidifies. The back of her neck prickles, and her skin feels somehow too tight and too insubstantial. She watches him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he tilts his head down, and has the ballroom been this warm all night? 

When he speaks, his voice is quiet and a little uncertain, like he’s not quite sure what he’s saying. “So, do you, uh…do you want to d—”

Her breath catches in her throat and she waits, eager for him to finish. _Dance. Do you want to dance?_ But then his gaze slides away over her shoulder and he takes a step back and when did he get so close to her in the first place? 

“Pop!” he says, and Rebecca turns in time to see his father approaching. “Did you hear the news?”

“Yes.” He raises his chin and regards Nathaniel down the length of his nose, a gesture that makes him seem much taller than he is. Then he turns to Rebecca, pointedly ignoring his son, and says, “You managed to convince Wexford to sign with you instead. Very impressive.”

“Well, I—um, thank you?” Rebecca feels Nathaniel shift beside her, and she reaches out to brush his arm. “It was a team effort.”

“Was it? Hmm. Nathaniel, may I have a word with you.” It isn’t a request. “Outside.”

He stares at Rebecca for a moment longer until she begins to feel like a bug under a microscope. Then he pivots on his heel and walks away without so much as a backward glance to make sure Nathaniel is following, because of course he is. She watches them go as an uneasy curiosity mounts within her. Chewing on the inside of her lip, she tells herself it’s none of her business. Plimpton family affairs don’t affect her at all. Except, she reasons, they’re technically her bosses, and they were talking about business, and _that_ affects her. And there’s no rule that says she can’t linger by the glass doors they disappeared through, the ones leading out to the balcony at the back of the ballroom. It’s a free country. She can stand wherever she pleases. And if she just _happens_ to see or hear something, well…

It’s good enough for her. 

One of the doors is ajar and she inches up to it just in time to catch Nathaniel’s father saying “I thought you were better than that.”

Nathaniel’s shoulders are hunched, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and he looks pained as he says, “Dad, I understand you’re disappointed, but we still got them.”

“No,” his father says. “ _She_ got them. That…that water girl you brought—and don’t get me started on how you could have possibly thought that was a good decision. But then again, perhaps I was wrong, because she did all the work while you stood there and made a fool of yourself! Honestly, Nathaniel, I don’t know what’s come over you.”

Rebecca gasps and covers it with her hand. Nathaniel opens his mouth, but his father plows on.

“When you told me you were ready to take on a firm of your own, I trusted you. I even trusted you when you chose that _joke_ of a practice, because I thought it would be good for you. Build some character. Teach you how to be a real leader. But I looked at the numbers this week, and West Covina is our lowest performing branch. Do you understand how that makes me look? For my _son_ to be at the head of our lowest performing branch?”

“To be fair, it’s only been a few weeks since I took over and—”

“Since you ‘took over?’ Is that what you think you’ve done? Please.” He shakes his head and paces away from Nathaniel, then comes back with renewed fire. “Your firm is under-performing. You couldn’t even manage to bring your partner to our most important event of the year. Instead, you brought some girl who looks like she just passed the bar yesterday, and then you let her run _circles_ around you. Do you truly expect me to believe that you’ve taken over anything? Because from where I’m standing, _you_ are the one who’s been taken over.”

He spits the last few words with a vehemence that makes Nathaniel cringe and Rebecca flinch from where she’s standing. It’s like seeing with double vision. There’s Nathaniel and his father, yes, but there’s also Naomi, dagger-tongued and relentless.

_I gave up law school and sacrificed my dreams for you, and in New York, you worked in a skyscraper with Audra Levine, and now you are here._

_You, my dear, are a loser._

“You know,” Nathaniel’s father continues. “I’m of half a mind to take Wexford back. You are clearly not ready for an account of this caliber.”

“Sir—”

“But I won’t, because unlike some people, I understand how business works, and they made it perfectly clear that they want your little water girl.” He steps in close to Nathaniel and speaks through his teeth. “But if you continue to display such gross levels of incompetence, don’t think for a _second_ that I won’t pull the plug on this…this passion project of yours. Am I clear?”

Nathaniel nods once, his eyes on the ground. “Yes, sir.”

His father turns and strides towards the door, the indignant walk of the righteous parent that Rebecca’s been all too familiar with her whole life. She dodges out of the way, hiding behind a cluster of people discussing bonds, until he’s safely lost in the crowd. Then she returns to the door, the champagne sitting like cement in her stomach as she looks out at Nathaniel. 

He’s leaning his elbows on the parapet, hands clasped together, head hung low. But it’s the defeated slump of his shoulders that gets her. It’s so foreign to him, so far from his usual confident-bordering-on-cocky carriage, and for the first time since she’s known him, he looks small. 

She slips out onto the balcony, closes the door behind her before she can think too much about it, and takes a steadying breath. The day’s heat has gone down with the sun, and the night air is almost cool enough to make her believe that it’s really fall. 

If he hears her approach, he doesn’t show it. He stands there, frozen, as she comes up beside him and mirrors his posture, ducking her head to see his face. His eyes are trained on the ground below, his lips curled in on themselves and his forehead wrinkled.

“Hey,” she says softly, and when he still doesn’t acknowledge her, she continues, “So…I heard some of that. I know. I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but Nathaniel, I just wanted to say that—”

“I think you’ve said enough.” His voice is deep and rough.

“What?”

“Go back inside, Rebecca.”

“What? No.”

“Rebecca.” More forceful this time. “Go back inside.”

And two can play at that game. She straightens and puts her hands on her hips. “ _No_.”

His shoulder shudder as he exhales a jagged sigh. “I’m not doing this with you right now. I shouldn’t have even brought you. I should have known you’d just screw everything up. Now go back inside and leave me alone.”

Her cheeks sting like she’s been slapped. It’s probably not even the worst thing he’s ever said to her, but it hurts like it is. She blinks at the unexpected acuteness of the pain, and for a minute, she considers following his orders. She should just go back inside before she can screw up anything else. But then she remembers him saying _unbelievable_ with such amazement and looking at her like he had that night in his office, and she can’t. 

“You don’t get to be a dick to me just because your dad was a dick to you,” she says. “That’s not how this works.”

“He wasn’t a dick. He was right.”

“You can’t seriously think that. We got the client. _We_ did. Not your dad, not LA. Us. We did what you came here to do, and it’s nobody’s fault that your dad’s pissy about it.”

Nathaniel whirls on her then, his face livid. “Are you delusional? _We_ didn’t do anything. _You_ did. You weren’t even supposed to be invited to this stupid party!”

“And who invited me?” She throws out her arms. “Who invited me out of all the lawyers in the office? You handed me that invitation and _you_ said it was because we needed to make the firm look good.”

“Well good fucking job.”

“Yes!” she shouts. “ _Yes_. It was a good fucking job, and I’m not going to apologize for that! And if you could pull your head out of your ass for two seconds, you wouldn’t want me to!”

He squints at her incredulously, and she squares her shoulders.

“Back there, before your dad came up, you were proud of me. Don’t deny it,” she says, holding up a hand when he looks like he’s about to. “Because I know it’s true. And as my boss, you have every right to be. It was _your_ call to bring me because _you_ knew I had the skills to do this.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, turning away. She grabs him roughly by the arm and spins him around.

“Stop telling me what I don’t get! Look…” She flounders for a second, searching for the right words to express what she means. “Okay! When you played water polo, the captain wasn’t the only one who made baskets, right? Sometimes he passed it off to the—the quarterback or…the, um, midfielder? And they scored. Right?”

“You have no idea how water polo works, do you?”

“Not a clue. Not the point. Come on, I’m right though, right?”

“I… Yes?” He huffs an exasperated sigh, but it’s better than the anger.

“But when the quarterback or the midfielder—”

“Those aren’t positions.”

“When they made a point,” she continues, gesturing emphatically, “they weren’t the only ones who got the credit, right? It was never Joe Shmoe won the game. It was _Stanford_ won the game. Am I wrong?”

“Yes. About a lot of things.” She folds her arms and stares at him until he relents and rolls his eyes like a petulant child. “But not about the last thing.”

“Then how’s this any different? You’re the captain, and I’m your in…fielder?”

He shakes his head.

“Still no? Okay. That’s fine. You know what I mean. It doesn’t matter who did what. We’re a team—Whitefeather, Plimpton, whatever—and the _team_ won.”

“I appreciate your little ra-ra speech,” he says, the edge creeping back into his voice. “But that doesn’t change the fact that our overall performance is awful. I came here to make something of this firm, but clearly you idiots are beyond help.”

Rebecca clenches her teeth and inhales through flared nostrils. 

“Fine. If that’s what you want to believe, I can’t stop you. You obviously think daddy knows best. But maybe if you actually paid attention to the people in front of you, you’d notice that we’ve signed more clients in the last six weeks than we have in the last six months. We may be under-performing for your precious Plimpton, Plimpton & Plimpton, but we’re doing fucking great for Whitefeather.” 

She takes a few steps towards the door and pauses, turning back to him. “And stop calling us idiots. One of those idiots earned you a massive client tonight. Be grateful.”

He blinks at her once, slow and stunned.

She can’t believe she wasted so much time actually trying to comfort this jerk. She ignored potential clients and probably made a joke of herself in the process, just to be insulted and belittled. _What’s gotten into you?_ she wonders, and the only possible explanation is that she allowed the magic of the ball to cloud her judgement long enough to think that he could actually be a decent person. That they could actually have something in common. 

Rebecca turns the doorknob, intent on ignoring Nathaniel for the rest of the night and maybe finding Declan, who actually seemed to respect her, when—

“Wait.” He sounds strained. She stops, but she keeps her back to him. “You, uh, you did…well.”

Slowly, she turns, caught off guard by his sudden hesitancy. “Well?”

“With Wexford. You were, um. You were right. I…” He tugs at his ear and looks everywhere except at her. “I was impressed. I mean, a little bit. It was good work.”

“It was,” she agrees.

He nods once, his face drawn and tight. She wonders how difficult that must have been for him and feels a softening in her chest and _no_. No. He doesn’t get to say one sort of nice thing to her and have everything be okay just like that.

“Are you done?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. She pushes open the door and is halfway through it when he calls out to her again.

“No, I— Rebecca, stop.”

“What?” she groans, her head falling back in frustration as she pivots. 

“The way I spoke to you was highly unprofessional, and I…shouldn’t have. My behavior was inappropriate and…I want you to know that…” He clears his throat. “That I appreciate you. As an employee.”

“Wow. Nathaniel, are you—are you actually apologizing to me right now?”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mm-hmm.” 

“It’s just my job, as your boss, to set a good example. That’s all.”

She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. Huh. So there _is_ a person in there. Maybe not a great one, but a person nonetheless, with at least a few emotions and problems and more than one facial expression. And even as she’s fighting it, trying to cling to the hurt and the outrage because he deserves it—after weeks of this, after tonight, he deserves it—she feels her resolve slipping. 

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll accept your not-apology this time. But!” She stalks towards him, and he watches her with heavy eyes. “If you ever try something like this again, I will rent out that empty space below the office, and I really will open my own firm, and I’ll steal every single client you have. And I won’t go belly up, because I’ll steal everyone who does our books, too, and you know they all like me more.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says, leaning closer.

“You should be.” 

She lifts her chin, and his breath ghosts across her face. Her eyes drop involuntarily to his mouth, slightly opened as he stares her down. The last vestiges of anger liquify and come back together as something else, something warm and wanting. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and she feels a tug low in her stomach, like a magnet urging her forward from the waist. 

“Do you want to dance?” he asks, so quietly she’s sure that she’s misheard him and her dance-starved brain has finally begun projecting hallucinations.

“Huh?”

“You wanted to earlier. And after…” He frowns. “I owe you one. If you want.”

She searches his face for any sign of contempt, any indication that this is part of some trick to humiliate her all over again, but all she sees is startling sincerity. 

(And something else, too—something like interest—and it makes her feel fuzzy around the edges.)

“Okay,” she murmurs and earns a smile from him as he reaches past her to hold open the door.

Inside, the atmosphere is different, a little looser and rowdier, the hallmark of a work party passing the three-hour mark, the final swell before it’s time to gather the abandoned suit jackets from the backs of chairs and call a legion of Ubers. More couples clutter the dance floor than before, laughing and stumbling over each other. Nearly everyone who passes has the ruddy, happy glow of almost-drunkenness. Rebecca drinks it all in and begins to relax. 

Nathaniel leads her into the throng and closes a hand around her waist. His other hand catches one of hers and holds it with a firm but gentle pressure. The music is peppy, and they fall into something like the waltz’s jazzier, freer cousin, all light steps and relaxed limbs. 

Rebecca’s danced with a lot of people in a lot of places—cousins at weddings, boyfriends at prom, friends-of-friends at parties, strangers in clubs. But she’s never danced in a fairytale before, at least not outside of her own imagination, and while her mind knows she’s just in a ritzy hotel off Rodeo Drive, her heart feels as though she’s been transported to some other land where trees grow gold for bark and everything is lit in the soft hue of a perfect sunset and people are happy.

The last of the tension from the balcony slips from her shoulders and grinds to dust beneath her heels. Nathaniel looks better too, the confident jut of his chin closer to normal, and Rebecca finds herself wondering if their fight really happened at all. Here, with his long fingers clasped around her hand and her dress brushing against his legs as they turn, it’s hard to believe that she was just shouting at him, that he was saying the things he said. It’s hard to believe that this is even the same man she works with every day. He leads her easily, the rhythm between them coming naturally, and he’s smiling. That’s perhaps the most unbelievable part of all. It’s not that he never smiles—he does, and she’s seen him do it a surprising amount tonight alone—but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him smile with such unconcealed enjoyment. 

This, Rebecca realizes with nothing short of amazement, is having-fun Nathaniel. 

(And he’s the best one she’s met all night.)

“You’re good at this,” she says.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” His hand on her waist is hot through the fabric of her dress. 

“Where’d you learn?” She imagines a little ten-year-old Nathaniel in etiquette classes, learning which fork to use at dinner and how to foxtrot—life skills for the rich and powerful.

He stares off over her head and makes noncommittal noises. “My, uh…my mom.”

“Really?” She revises her mental picture, imagining little Nathaniel leading his waifish mother around the living room instead, stepping on her toes, both of them laughing. Her heart swells. “That’s so sweet.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, it was practical. Like…tying a tie or driving.”

“Well, I think it’s sweet.”

The hand holding hers flexes. “Where’d you learn, then? Summer camp with Flip-flop?”

Rebecca leans back. “So you do listen to me?” Warmth bubbles in her chest even as her gut twists at the mention of Josh.

“Wha—? Pffft. No. You’ve just mentioned it a lot.”

“And you listened.” She jostles him with the hand on his shoulder and smiles. “But no, not camp. The Scarsdale Jewish Community Center.”

“What, seriously? Like in that play?”

Rebecca gapes and misses a step. “What?”

“The one with the AIDS? I just assumed you’ve seen it.”

“No,” she says slowly, wondering if she’s somehow stepped into an alternate universe, because that would actually explain a lot of things. “I know what Rent is. The question is, how do _you_ know what Rent is? Because, I mean, if you were New York, you’d be Wall Street, not Broadway.”

“Thank you,” he says, and genuinely seems to mean it. Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I had this weird theatre major roommate in college. He’d drag me to performances sometimes, and that was the only one that didn’t completely suck.”

Forget dancing with his mom, _this_ is the best possible memory he could have shared. Nathaniel Plimpton III allowing himself to be dragged anywhere, much less to the theater, much less to _Rent_ , is so wonderfully incongruous that all she can do is laugh.

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_. I can’t believe that the human incarnation of the bourgeoisie’s favorite musical is a celebration of impoverished alternative lifestyles. You do realize you are literally Benny, right?”

“I didn’t say favorite—”

“ _Literally_ Benjamin Coffin III. The third! Oh my god. This is too good.”

He spins her instead of responding, and if he’s trying to distract her, it works. Her brain catches and skips like scratched vinyl at the sight of him, stretching out to her, his body held with perfect dancer’s posture. As he reels her back in, the song changes, the new rhythm languid, unhurried. It drips over them like honey, slowing them to a gentle sway. The hand on her hip slides to her lower back and presses her closer, cutting the space between them in half.

“Guess I’m full of surprises,” he says, parroting her earlier words back to her. His tone is teasing, but his voice is soft.

She gazes up at him, lingering on the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. He should smile more, she thinks. It looks good on him.

She searches for something to say and comes up empty. He doesn’t seem to mind. They sway in silence, making slow revolutions like twin planets orbiting the same sun. The fabric of his suit jacket is smooth beneath her hand, and she strokes it absently with her thumb. 

“I never thanked you for inviting me,” she says at last. 

He raises his eyebrows. “No, you didn’t.”

She doesn’t say it. On some level, she knows saying it would be like giving in, like tipping whatever scale they’re balancing on in his favor. He clears his throat.

“I never thanked you for the work you did. Or…the things you said.”

“No.” She flattens her palm against his. “You didn’t.”

He doesn’t say it either, and she’s not surprised. He just stares at her, and she stares back, and it’s enough. They continue to move together, but it’s less like dancing now and more like rocking, like they’re standing on the bow of a ship and dipping with the waves. His eyes drop to trace her mouth. The ballroom, the music, all of it recedes into the background, leaving her with nothing but the slope of his cheekbones, the angle of his forehead, the soft puff of his breath stealing hers. When he tugs her closer still, she goes willingly, the front of her dress brushing the lapels of his jacket. Distantly—very, very distantly—she realizes they haven’t been this close to each other since that first week, since she launched herself at him in the conference room. 

(Even more distantly—so distantly it’s less of a thought and more of an impulse, a half-formed idea she can’t quite bring herself to bear, even now—she realizes she’s been waiting for this ever since.)

He rubs her wrist with his pinky, and it’s such a gentle motion, barely more than a muscle spasm, but her body responds with an electric wave of goosebumps. His head tilts down, and she feels herself opening to him, her face lifting, waiting. When the tip of his nose brushes hers, her blood turns to soda, and she feels shaken.

“Nathaniel,” she whispers, and the heat of his mouth is so close, so dizzyingly close, and somehow still so far away. “What are we doing?”

He makes a noise low in his throat, and it reverberates through her where she’s pressed against him. 

“Dancing,” he whispers, and closes the distance.


End file.
